


Tell Me What Happened

by 2babyturtles



Series: Vatican Cameos [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Edited from FFN, Episode: s03e01 The Empty Hearse, Except they love each other so much uggh, Fixing my own work, Gen, Hurt, Love, M/M, Mid-Canon, Platonic Soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-12
Updated: 2017-09-13
Packaged: 2018-12-26 21:11:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12067056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/2babyturtles/pseuds/2babyturtles
Summary: “Can you tell me what happened? Can you tell me what happened to Sherlock?” Doctor John Watson, worn as ever, with his firm military eyes and squared shoulders, met the unwavering look of the elder Holmes brother with a guilty stare.“Stay the night, Dr. Watson,” Mycroft finally responded, glancing down at the floor and swinging his umbrella forcefully. The ungraceful action betrayed his inner turmoil, despite his otherwise calm demeanor.





	1. Stay the Night, Dr. Watson

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally posted on FFN as "The Scarred Ones" (find it here: https://www.fanfiction.net/s/12435134/1/The-Scarred-Ones) but honestly it was pretty terrible. Despite that, it's gotten quite a bit of responses, and I thought I'd redo it and share it here! The original has sort of a fun style, a little more true to ACD, so definitely check them both out! Otherwise, enjoy.

It took time for John to realize why his dear friend seemed so different after having been gone for two years. At first, he just assumed that time had done what time does and that he’d forgotten the quirks. The little things. But it quickly became clear that Sherlock’s hiatus was much more than a vacation, as John had feared.

When Sherlock and John had first reunited, it had been…awkward. More than awkward. It had been terrible. Sherlock had explained that he had taken the opportunity of his supposed death to destroy what remained of Moriarty’s underground network, a project which had taken the full two years. He tried so hard. He tried to reassure John that he had returned as soon as was possible. He tried not to be a cocky bastard. He did try.

He didn’t say so, but John could see that there was a new wall built between them. Like so many before, it seemed entirely insurmountable. John was stubborn, though, and aimed to tear it down. There was little hope of a proper reunion without doing so.

When they’d first met, all those years before, Sherlock was distant. Engaged more deeply with his own thoughts than with any other human being, he was satisfied to be alone. Of course, it wasn’t hard to see that that was just something he told himself. It was pure irony that Sherlock had chosen to throw himself off the same building where he’d met John. He ended his life in the same place it began.

And John’s began anew.

When he came back, Sherlock was devastated to discover that John was engaged. He was horrified. London was his not his home, whatever he tried to say. 221B was. John was. But Sherlock was so taken with Mary that he could hardly argue. She was charming and intelligent and Sherlock was happy for John. But happiness wasn’t enough, really. Happiness _for_ someone is never really enough.

Loneliness, dark like the plague and thick like the fog, invaded 221B. Where John had previously sat remained only an old battered chair and a few empty bottles. There was no saying whether John had emptied them when Sherlock had died, or Sherlock had emptied them when he’d died inside.

Despite his own experience with it, John failed to recognize the signs of PTSD. He never asked for details of his time “abroad” as they called it. Eventually, he started noticing though. Mostly it came in flashes. Memories of John suffering the same things only a few years before. Of course, Sherlock had saved John then. It seemed it was his turn.

“Can you tell me what happened? Can you tell me what happened to Sherlock?” Doctor John Watson, worn as ever, with his firm military eyes and squared shoulders, meets the unwavering look of the elder Holmes brother with a guilty stare.

“Stay the night, Dr. Watson,” Mycroft finally responds, glancing down at the floor and swinging his umbrella forcefully. The ungraceful action betrays his inner turmoil, despite his otherwise calm demeanor.

“I’m sorry?”

“Stay the night at Baker Street and tell me what you learn.”

As usual, Mycroft doesn't wait for a response. He turns on his heel and left the room. He left John alone with nothing but questions and a dark warehouse.

It's awkward to knock on the door of what feels like his own flat. It seems… _wrong._ Maybe it is. Of course, it doesn't help that no one answers. Eventually he gives up and opens the door, pushing inside with cautious steps.

“Well, I wondered if you were ever going to come in,” Mrs. Hudson asks loudly, leaning against the railing of the stairs. She’d apparently come out of her flat just to see how long it would take him. “Why’d you knock anyway?”

John’s fists clench and unclench. “I wasn’t sure if I was allowed to just… _come in,_ ” he admits.

“Of course you are, John.” Her eyes soften and a small smile makes John soften, too. “You’re always welcome here. Would you like some tea?”

“That would be lovely, Mrs. H.”

“Perfect. I’ve got biscuits, too, but don’t get used to this, John. I’m not your housekeeper.” She turns and reenters her flat, again leaving John alone. He isn't sure he appreciates getting used to that feeling.

Everything about Baker Street feels uncomfortable. He isn't just entering his old home, but his old life. A whole world. He makes his way up the stairs, contemplating what he might say first and thinking that Sherlock is probably already aware of who was here. Familiar as he is with every set of footsteps, it wouldn’t take him long to realize it was John. _Unless he doesn’t think I’d come._ The thought rattles John and he pushes himself faster up the stairs.

His first instinct proves correct when the door to the flat swings open just a moment before John reaches the top of the steps. Sherlock’s shadow is long, stretching across the floor as he returns to his chair in front of the fire. John realizes the curtains are drawn and the only light comes from the hearth.

“All right then, Sherlock?” he asks lightly, closing the door behind himself and removing his coat. He glances around the room and suddenly wishes he’d brought chips or _something_. Anything. Something to do, something to fidget about, something to eat. Quite empty and quite…sad…the kitchen that had once been so full of chemistry equipment and horrific experiments is devoid of any indication of life at all. It had been a week since Sherlock had returned to London and to the flat, and there are no signs that he had eaten at all during that time.

“All right,” Sherlock responds, his deep voice weaker than John remembers. “This is a surprise.”

“Is it?”

“A bit. Which is saying something. There’s not many things that surprise me. Are you here just to…ah…pick something up?” Sherlock tries. He tries to sound casual. He tries to stand. The effort is immense but he does manage that one. He tries to clean. Fluttering his hands uselessly, he doesn't seem sure where to begin. It's clear he's starving, but less clear whether he's sober. John hates to think of the bruising and track marks concealed by the sleeve of his friend’s dressing gown.

The silence is palpable as the two men avoid each others’ gazes. In fact, they avoid looking at each other entirely. They also avoid talking, which is a relief but also seems detrimental to John’s mission. With a careful sigh, he glances up at Sherlock. “No,” he responds carefully. “I came to see you. It’s been a while.”

Sherlock is quiet, evidently analyzing John’s words. “I see,” he finally says.

“Shall we go out then?” Sherlock looks instantly relieved at the idea of leaving this mess behind.

“Chips?”

“Chips.”

John watches as Sherlock collects himself. He sheds his dressing gown on the couch and struggles to keep his balance as he leans forward to pick up a pair of trousers off the floor in the hall. He changes in the bedroom but John remains fixated on his friend’s outfit as long as he can see it; when did Sherlock change last? Or bathe? Or go out? When he's dressed, Sherlock meets John again and they head downstairs.

“Sherlock?” Mrs. Hudson gasps running out of her flat again, an empty box of biscuits in her hand. “You’re going out?”

“Yes, Mrs. Hudson, John’s here.”

“But look at you! You haven’t left in days.”

“Not now, Mrs. Hudson! John’s here.” Sherlock avoids their eyes. Two people who, in this moment, have very different ideas of how he has been since his return to London. He gathers his coat and scarf and leaves, holding the door open for John. The doctor hesitates for a moment before nodding at Mrs. Hudson and following.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Edited 9/13, 12:20pm PST*: I should probably pick a tense right? Edited to make it present tense and some basic grammar/flow changes that came up reading it through again.


	2. You Haven't Really Come Back, Have You?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John shakes his head and closes his eyes, unable to stand the fiery gleam of his friend’s blue ones. He remembers the blood—fake blood, he had learned later—that had run down those same blue eyes just two years ago, and he forces himself to breathe normally. Just to breathe.

John had hoped that the fresh air of London and the city lights beaming down from above might renew the vigor that seems to have escaped the famous—and infamous—Sherlock Holmes, but it seems to be the opposite. He insists that a walk would be nicer than a cab, and as they stroll down the sidewalk, it seems that the streetlights only emphasize Sherlock’s gaunt cheeks and drawn eyes. The detective has always been a man of impeccable hygiene and grooming practices, but now just seems like any other dirty, unshaven man, with matted hair and a sad gait.

It’s unlikely that Sherlock fails to notice the sidelong glances from his nervous friend, but he says nothing, pressing his lips into a thin line and walking as if he were in great pain. The pressing silence between them is, of course, characteristic of Sherlock Holmes, but now seems heavier than ever. John can’t help worrying that drugs are to blame, and he wonders whether it’s possible that Sherlock truly doesn’t notice. Can drugs even do that? Could they ruin the mind of a man who was once so attuned to the world’s little nuances?

John opens his mouth, preparing to speak.

And closes it again.

“Yes, John?” Sherlock finally asks, placing a hand out to the doctor’s chest, silently asking them to slow down.

John doesn’t comment on this request, doing his best to refrain from any reaction that would betray his concern. Tall, lanky, and ever oblivious to the needs of others, Sherlock has always been quick. He walks hastily about London as if he has some great purpose in his direction—and of course, he usually does. To see him slow down is to see him lose all sense of purpose or direction, and devastates John more than he expected.

“Yes what?”

“You are observing, but not seeing, and you are wondering what you are not seeing. Just ask.” He looks like he wants to smile, but his mouth only twitches at the corner. He returns his hands to his coat pockets and waits for John’s response. The doctor, however, his focused on the man’s expression. _Something_ indicates trouble. His soldier instincts often warn him of danger before he can detect it consciously, and his medical instincts often do the same.

_Vatican Cameos._

His hands clench into fists again and he takes a moment to breath and unclench them, just as his therapist has taught him.

****

**_You’ve got a psychosomatic limp, of course you’ve got a therapist._ **

****

It seems like years ago that the two men had sat in a cab together and Sherlock had explained just how he had deduced so much about a man he’d just met. And of course, it is. It’s been years since they solved their last crime. And years since Sherlock Holmes jumped from the roof of Bart’s Hospital in front of his best friend.

 

**_This phone call, it’s, um… It’s my note. It’s what people do, don’t they? Leave a note?_ **

**_Leave a note when?_ **

**_Goodbye, John._ **

****

John shakes his head and closes his eyes, unable to stand the fiery gleam of his friend’s blue ones. He remembers the blood—fake blood, he had learned later—that had run down those same blue eyes just two years ago, and he forces himself to breathe normally. Just to breathe.

“John….” A single word. One word. That soft voice that has always pushed John out of his own trauma now shakes with its own.

“You were dead,” John chokes through gritted teeth. “And you came back.” Sherlock is quiet. Uncharacteristically quiet. His eyes are dark, his lips are pressed into a line, and his face is pale. “But you haven’t really come back, have you, Sherlock?”

The two men stand in silence, neither able to meet the other’s eyes, but neither able to look away for long. They haven’t really changed much. John only recently shaved his mustache and his clean face is set in a firm scowl that spoke to the conflict of anger and grief that gnaw at him. It really shouldn’t have been a surprise that Sherlock had deduced his military service just from looking at him. His stance, his posture, his features set in stone, but somehow so soft. As if he had spent as much time scowling as he had crying.

Sherlock’s appearance is different, of course. His normally clean face bears the faint stubble of a man whose diet does not permit a healthier display of facial hair. His eyes are sunken but offer the same crystal clarity as ever and John realizes suddenly that he sees exactly as much as ever has. Which means, of course, that he sees right through John Watson.

“No,” Sherlock finally whispers, shuddering faintly. “But I haven’t come back to the same London, either.”

They are silent for another moment before Sherlock raises his arm and hails a passing cab.

The ride is short but it isn’t until they pull up outside the familiar restaurant that john finally reorients himself to the world around him. He can’t help laughing when he realizes.

“’A Study in Scarlet’ I believe?” Sherlock confirms, smirking at his friend as they face the restaurant they had shared a meal at during their first case together. John pushes aside the image of shooting the cabby and the pain of realizing he might’ve lost Sherlock then, too, and settles on the feeling of surprise that Sherlock _almost_  remembers the name of the blog post about it.

“’Pink’,” he corrects, laughing as they approach the small building. “’A Study in Pink’.”

Taking the same seat they’d taken all those years ago, they order food and wait for their meal. Sherlock, it seems, ordered as much food as John had the first time they’d been here, and John’s stomach sinks. He remembers with distinct clarity having been painfully ravenous that first night, not hardly having eaten since his return to London. He remembers the nightmares, the guilt, the self-loathing, and the other terrors of the PTSD that followed him home from Afghanistan.

Focusing on Sherlock, he can’t help being grateful that his friend is eating _something_ again. For a while, it seems like old times and they’re able to chat normally. Quickly, however, they run out of things to say that properly avoid the things they know they need to talk about.

“So,” Sherlock begins awkwardly, stabbing a scallop with his fork and popping it into his mouth. “Mary, then? I mean you’re marrying Mary?”

“Ah, yes. That’s the plan.”

“That’ll be nice. Yes. I mean, marriage is sort of a sham, and ultimately will doom the species, but I’m glad that you seem happy.” He seems to start a smile and then realizes he’s said something wrong, and he frowns again. “I’m sorry. I only meant that I’m happy for you. The rest was…forget the rest.”

John looks away, not sure how to respond. “Right,” he finally manages.

More silence.

“What about you?” John pushes. “You doing anything exciting now that you’re back? Or doing any…one…exciting?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Well, you have a flat to yourself now,” he goes on, swirling his pasta around his fork too many times and wishing he’d just shut his stupid mouth. “You could have a woman over. Or _The_ Woman. Or another woman.”

“Or no women,” Sherlock scowls. “You know I’m married to my work, John.”

“right, but you don’t exactly seem to have been doing much of that.”

Silence.

“I’m sorry.” It’s John’s turn to apologize but he knows that ‘sorry’ doesn’t mean much to Sherlock, and bitterly regrets having said something so harsh.

“No you’re not,” Sherlock whispers, his eyes narrowing as he sets his fork down. He stares out the same window where they’d first lain eyes on the killer cabby. “And you’re right, too. You’re always right.” Just a whisper. A heartbreaking, tragic whisper of a broken man holding the pieces of his life in his hands with no way to put them back together.

“Not always,” John responds quietly. “I wasn’t right about you, Sherlock.” He stares down at his hands, trying desperately to avoid eye contact, although he can feel Sherlock’s eyes boring into his face. “I’m staying tonight,” he finally announces. “If- if you’ll- y’know. If you’ll have me.”

Sherlock nearly smiles before his expression returns to a grimace. “Of course, John,” he murmurs. “Of course.”

“Let’s go back,” John urges, waving a hand for the waiter who merely shrugs. “Right, forgot he doesn’t charge you.”

The city lights seem like poison to John, who stares sadly out the window at a London that seems, now, to betray him. Of course, that’s stilly. But Sherlock’s words hurt to hear and he worries that the city won’t save the man who loved it so much. The man who knows every turn, and street sign, and member of its vast homeless network. The man who had devoted himself to saving it, even when he can’t save himself. How is he supposed to save his friend, when he can’t even see what ails him? He decides he’s probably not a very good doctor.

When they arrive and step out onto the familiar curbside of Baker Street, John can’t help feeling dejected. He’s done nothing at all to help his friend, and only managed to convince himself that the help Sherlock needs is greater than he expected. Something terrible has happened.

_Vatican Cameos._

Without a word, they enter the building and head upstairs to their unit. _The_ unit, John reminds himself firmly. The flat Sherlock Holmes occupies alone and very sadly. Unfortunately, John had also forgotten the present state of the flat, and his face darkens when they enter.

Sherlock sinks into his chair as though it was a relief to finally sit, although they’d been sitting just a few moments before, and looks up at John, who opens his mouth suddenly. “You don’t mind, do you? You’re sure?”

Sherlock’s eyes are guarded as he surveys his friend. “Of course not, John. 221B is your home in many respects and will be as long as I occupy it.”

John crosses the room and lowers himself into the chair opposite Sherlock. “Thank you,” he murmurs, watching as Sherlock closes his eyes. His face moves, twitching as if he’s trying to block out a painful memory that cropped up unwittingly, and then settles. John considers himself fairly devoid of a more strongly poetic streak, despite Sherlock’s insistence that he’s the ‘romantic’ one, but the vivid image of a broken child resigned to waiting out a bad storm by crouching in it comes to mind. The comparison to the great Sherlock Holmes is a heartbreaking one.

“I think,” Sherlock finally decides, glancing at his watch. “That it’s time for bed.”

“Right,” John responds, keeping his eyes down.

“Your room is still yours, John. Always. Goodnight.” Without waiting for a response, Sherlock pushes himself out of his chair again and departs for his room, walking with a limp that John hadn’t noticed before.

“What happened to you, Sherlock?” John whispers to himself, before following his friend down the hall and entering his old room, collapsing on the bed without changing his clothes.


	3. Are You Quite Certain You Wish To See?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He pauses.
> 
> Mycroft told him to come here, to learn what happened to Sherlock. To his dear friend. To his Sherlock. In this moment, standing in a dark hallway in his wrinkled clothes from the day before, he realizes he has no idea what Sherlock is even capable of right now. What would Sherlock do?
> 
> With as much reason as he can muster, he begins to make deductions.

It isn’t unusual for John to wake up in the middle of the night, cold sweats soaking his sheets as his frantic shivers die in the stillness of the realization that he is not, in fact, back in Afghanistan. However, this night is unusual because it’s not his own screams that drag him into the waking world. Somehow, the sound of agony ripping from the lips of the most rational and truly human man he has ever met shakes John more than the pain of his own trauma. Before he comprehends precisely what he’s doing, he’s out of bed with a hand on the door knob.

He realizes quickly, upon opening the door, that the screams coming from Sherlock’s room were muffled by the distance of a hallway and the solid wood of two doors. The sound grows exponentially louder as he enters the hall and his chest shakes frantically as adrenaline, born of fear-training and gunshot wounds, pumps through his body, preparing him for a very different kind of war.

 

**_You’re not haunted by the war, Dr. Watson. You miss it. Welcome back._ **

****

At the time, with a psychosomatic limp and a nervous tick in his hand, John had been surprised to find that Mycroft Holmes was right. His sheer terror in this moment, his shaking hand on the doorknob of Sherlock’s room and the haunting memory of Sherlock’s limp, comes from a very different place then. Standing in the hall, John does something entirely against his instinct.

He pauses.

Mycroft told him to come here, to learn what happened to Sherlock. To his dear friend. To _his_ Sherlock. In this moment, standing in a dark hallway in his wrinkled clothes from the day before, he realizes he has no idea what Sherlock is even capable of right now. What would Sherlock do?

With as much reason as he can muster, he begins to make deductions.

 **A limp.** Psychosomatic? It seems unlikely; Sherlock is too well in control of his own mind to suffer this sort of issue. Actual injury then.

 **Behaviour** _._ Drugs? Probably. Just drugs? Unlikely. He had his wits about him to clean the apartment in the moment before John entered, likely an indication that he is not so far into drugs that he’s detached from reality. But what then?

 **Dinner.** Sherlock had been ravenous and with the kitchen the way it is, clearly he hasn’t eaten for a while. Fasting? Doubtful. Sherlock is certainly not religious. He has been known to forget to eat when he’s high or on a case, but he certainly isn’t on a case and doesn’t seem high enough for that.

 **Pain.** Pain? Sherlock had trouble getting in and out of his chair in the living room, and getting dressed had taken him more time than John can remember him taking before.

The screams continue and John can faintly hear whimpers, as though Sherlock is begging between outbursts of terror. Morbidly, he thinks briefly or Irene Adler. Not that kind of begging.

 

**_That suggests the original circumstances of the injury were probably traumatic – wounded in action then._ **

****

Wounded in action?

The _SCREAMING._

_Vatican Cameos._

 

**_You’ve never been the most luminous of people, but as a conductor of light, you are unbeatable._ **

****

Careful as ever, John opens the door to Sherlock’s bedroom. He moves silently to sit beside his writing friend, on the same bed he had helped to desposit him on when he was drugged, high, wounded, and more. The agony on Sherlock’s face is unbearable, but John knows his role here is not to fix his friend, but to help him. He places a gentle hand on Sherlock’s shoulder.

 

**_I don’t have friends, John. I just have one._ **

****

Sherlock wakes with a start and seems to suddenly break when he sees the former army doctor sitting beside him, the deep lines of his face etched with hot fear. It’s not the sort of cold worry that carves lines into the faces of old women who have lost too many children. It’s not even the sort of warm concern that softens stern eyes and brings gentle smiles to worn lips. Instead, it’s the desperate ugly fear that springs tears from bloodshot eyes and down puffy cheeks that can’t help the frown that looks more like a grimace than a sadface. John Watson, the army doctor returned home after a traumatic wartime injury, is afraid.

 

**_You are the best and wisest man that I have ever met. Yes, of course I forgive you._ **

****

Sherlock cries for a long time before he can say anything. He simply cries into his hands and begs not to have to go to sleep again. John is certain he’s not fully awake yet, but has no intentions of putting the man back to bed.

“Shh, Sherlock, you don’t have to go to bed. It’s alright now, I’m here,” he whispers, voice cracking. “You’re home.” His hands find their way to Sherlock’s arms and he does his best to make a comforting gesture.

When Sherlock returns to a more typical state and the sobs cease, he clears his throat and looks terribly embarrassed, opening his mouth several times without saying anything. John pauses for just a moment before simply scooching closer and hugging Sherlock tightly.

“So we should probably talk then,” he muses, releasing Sherlock and leaning back, but staying close.

“Right,” Sherlock laughs without humor, staring down at himself without really seeing anything. “Where to begin…?”

The night seems very quiet as Sherlock begins to explain what it had required of him to take down Moriarty’s network. Although he tires his best to gloss over the torture he had received in Serbia and other countries around the world, John gathers enough information to feel sick, hating himself for not seeing it sooner. When Sherlock is finished, it’s a long time before John can speak.

“Have you seen a doctor?” he finally whispers.

Sherlock blinks blankly and gaps at him. “I’m sorry?”

“Have you seen a doctor? I haven’t seen any wounds on you but I don’t fancy you’ve been the most caught-up on your medical care, and Mycroft doesn’t seem the type to consider these things either.”

Silence.

“When I first arrived, yes,” Sherlock begins awkwardly. “There were a number of stitches required and some…skin grafts…nothing major.”

“Skin-“ John swallows hard. “Show me.”

Those eyes. Those careful blue eyes that search endlessly, though they see everything.

“Are you quite certain you wish to see, John?” The army doctor merely nods.

Turning and pulling the back of his pajama shirt over his head, Sherlock reveals what used to be the smooth skin and slender muscles of his back. Only thick red welts and deep cuts remain. They’re hardly healed and John can’t imagine what it must be like just to lay down or lean back in a chair.

His stomach sinks at the thought of how this must’ve hurt when he threw Sherlock down in the restaurant and he carefully checks out of his personal perspective. He can’t handle that process at the moment and the medical perspective needs his attention.

“Lacerations, abrasions, burns,” he lists, “evidence of broken ribs. Sherlock, how did you survive?”

“I didn’t think I would,” Sherlock whispers past the tears that spring to his eyes. “I really didn’t think I would.” He returns his shirt to its normal place and turns. John is quiet. “I didn’t ever contact you because I wasn’t sure whether I’d come back. The opportunities were rare and fraught with danger anyway. I could risk putting you in harm’s way, nor did I want to put you through that grief again if I ended up dying permanently. Of course, I had no idea what my death would mean to you.”

“No idea-?” John shakes his head but remains quiet.

Sherlock goes on without responding to John’s outburst. “Mycroft and I had discussed what to do in case of my death and what arrangements should be made for my belongings here, as well as what to tell you. He would, should I have died, inform you of the truth of my jump from Bart’s Hospital, and explain the circumstances of my actual demise.”

“And he agreed to that?” John shakes his head, imagining getting this news from the colder of the Holmes brothers.

“Reluctantly,” Sherlock admits. “He felt it would be better for you to think I had died the way that I had, and for you to be able to complete your grief along a more normal course.”

“But?”

“But I didn’t want you to think I was a fraud forever.”

Silence wraps around them until John finally whispers: “I never thought you were a fraud at all.”

Between two men, whose respect and profound love for each other is stronger than most friendships can hope to achieve, there are no more words. How does a battered old army doctor say what he thinks or feels to the man who can deduce anything? How does a man labeled a sociopath—among other things—explain his gratitude when he truly has no grasp of the words necessary to express those feelings? Feelings of which he thought himself incapable?

Dr. John Watson, formerly of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, and Sherlock Holmes, the World’s Only Consulting Detective, fall asleep in Sherlock’s bed. Just John and just Sherlock. Each too grateful for the other’s presence to say or think anything of it. Sherlock sleeps soundly that night, for the first time in months, and John is finally able to sleep off the hot fear that trauma survivors so often bring home with them.

The next morning, they eat breakfast together, each of them consuming frankly massive portions, and stand together in the entrance of 221B.

“Let’s not say goodbye,” Sherlock finally decides. “That seems rather preemptive. I should think it would be best to begin again. I’m sure Scotland Yard is rightly desperate to have us back.”

John laughs, thinking of how delighted Mary will be to have him out of the office and back in the field she knows he loves so much. A frown crosses his heart, something about the idea of going ‘home’ to the wrong place, but he ignores it.

“Right,” he responds lightly. “Monday, then?”

“Monday.” Sherlock smiles sincerely, gratitude plain in his soft blue eyes, and follows John out of the flat.

When John leaves, Sherlock hails a cab and goes grocery shopping. It’s the first day he’s been clean since his return to London, and he had made a point of shaving, showering, and dressing neatly that morning. He knows it’s not the last first-day-clean he’ll endure, but it’s a start.

Mycroft Holmes receives two text messages, each simply reading “Thank you.”

Of course, one of them is signed “SH”.


End file.
